


He Touched Me

by awkwardauthoracts



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Epilogue, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Read the notes before each chapter for TW, Slow Burn, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardauthoracts/pseuds/awkwardauthoracts
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak never thought that his worst fear would be Richie Tozier.





	1. DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME!

**Author's Note:**

> so this chapter is short only because yall already know what happens here but I think it's better to start at this point rather than just jumping into where I stray away from the canon stuff okay yeah enjoy

Golden eyes stare into my soul in a way that's more than hypnotic.

Sounds romantic, right?

Allow me to rephrase: The is a fucking demon-clown two inches from my face with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth slowly getting closer to me so that they can devour me in the most excruciatingly painful way fathomable and permanently scar my friends for life by showing off my insides like a display of sweets in a candy shop.

Still sound romantic?

No?

Didn't think so.

I don't think I've ever felt so many terribly horrible things at once. My chest feels like it's about to cave in on me and my ribs are about to snap inward and puncture my lungs. My hair is plastered to my forehead with the buckets I'm sweating and my clothes reek of body odor. I'm shaking from head to toe, trembling like there's no tomorrow, because, for me, there might not be. My right arm is throbbing and bent in a way that no arm should ever be bent. It's sending abrupt bolts of pain up through the rest of my body. My first instinct is to look down at it and find that I'm probably bleeding externally as well internally, but if I move just a fraction of an inch then my skin will slit by the rows and rows of teeth covered in blood that's probably older than me and then some that are randomly placed all throughout It's mouth. The image in front of me is getting ingrained in my memory because it's not every day that your life is threatened by a murderous clown who doubles as a leper that is the equivalent of a walking infection. 

It's face isn't even a face anymore. It's jaw has extended up so far that It's mouth  _is_  It's face. I'm completely slack-jawed, unable to scream. My vocal chords have closed up and all I can do now give an airy whimper as I shut my eyes and brace myself for a sharp bite that is sure to be my end. I wait and wait, but nothing ever happens. I cautiously open my eyes only for It to bring a gloved hand to my face so I can't see anything that's happening. 

Everything happens so quickly that the next thing I know is that Bill, Richie and I are all pinned against a wall, and It is on the other side of the room, It's hands ripping through the gloves It wore to reveal massive grey claws that scream infection. 

Then It stops mid-step. 

I look up to see Beverly, a metal stake in her hand that is driven through the side of It's head. The others stand in the doorway, their eyes wide with terror and shock. It spins around, and for a moment it seems like It's about to leave. Then It turns back around, eyes red with a lust for blood and human flesh. The side of It's face is torn away, revealing dozens upon dozens of teeth that scream insanity five times more than It did before. It drags It's newly formed claws around the room in a 360 circle, slashing Ben's gut in the process before stumbling back into whatever inner circle of hell it came out of.

That's when we all start screaming. 

Richie is screaming for Bill, and then so are Bev, Stan, and Mike. Ben looks like he wants to, but is getting dizzy from blood loss. They all stop maybe half a minute later when Bill shows back up, stuttering about the well and how he knows where It is hiding. I, on the other hand, have yet to stop screaming about my arm that is bent in a way that no arm should be bent. Richie turns around to face me and underneath his coke bottle glasses, his eyes widen in disbelief while his jaw drops to the floor. He panics for a split second before saying, "I'm gonna snap it back into place!" and putting his hands on either side of the break. My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel like I'm about to pass out again from the pain. Anger courses through my veins and my blood boils as I scream at him, "DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

  _Snap._

The severity of the situations dawns on all of us with the crack of my arm. We're all scared out of our goddamned minds and two of us are badly injured.

"Holy shit!"

"Oh shit!"

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck!"

"Come on!"

Bill and Richie help me up, walking me outside at a pace that's really too fast to be walking, but there's no way in hell that I can run right now. Everyone gets on their respective bikes except for me. Mike puts me in his front basket and takes off, leaving mine behind. Everyone, this time including myself, is spitting out an assortment of curse words as we get as far away from that house as possible as fast as we can.

I cradle my arm and try not to cry.

~

"Monsters! All of you!"

"Mrs. K, we ruh-ruh-ruh-really-"

"Save it!" My mommy shouts, shoving me into the car, somehow violently but in a way that seems caring. "None of you will see my Edward again!" She slams the door and that combined with the ringing in my ears is enough to mute whatever else she says to them. I close my eyes and don't open them up again until we're driving away.

Everyone is feeling the same but in a different way. They're all scared, but each of them has something else. Bill looks ready. Beverly looks confident. Ben looks tired. Mike looks conflicted. Stan looks petrified. Richie looks angry.

I look away.

 


	2. GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW!!! Non-consensual make out/ getting a little handsy between minors, but it doesn't go beyond that.  
> Also, Eddie is a suuuuper unreliable narrator, so some things (lots of things) contradict each other. It's all intentional my dudes.

It's been two days since I broke my arm, lost all my friends, and acquired a blank, white cast. I try to convince myself that it's only blank because I don't want to get it dirty, but if anyone asked to sign it, I'd let them do it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to see the few people who would actually ask me that.

When I force myself to look on the bright side, I just think about how Mommy hasn't revoked phone privileges. Granted, nobody has called me, so there's not really a reason why she would take away the phone. As if waiting for my train of thought to drift over to my friends and their lack of calling me, the phone abruptly rings. I shoot up from not only my bed but my growing hole of self-pity and run downstairs. Mommy would have already picked up, but she's at the store and she will be for the next few hours. (She likes to read the labels of everything she buys to make sure it's okay for me to have with all of my sicknesses, even if she's already bought the product before, just in case the ingredients change.)

"Hello?"

"Eddie?"

"That's me. Who is this?"

"It's Ben."

"Ben! I've been worried sick about you guys. How's your gut? You got beat up pretty bad."

"I'm okay, or at least I will be soon enough. And as much as I wish I could say that I called to catch up, I don't wanna lie to you. There was a big fight between Stan and Bev and everyone else. Richie and Bill ended up punching each other in the face and now none of us are really friends anymore."

"Wait, what? What are you trying to say?"

"The Losers' Club... it broke up, Eddie. We broke up."

My mouth goes dry and I'm at a loss for words.

"You still there, Eddie?"

"Yeah..."

"So what? Do you think that's the end?"

I take a moment to process everything before shaking my head, despite Ben not being able to see me. "We've gotten in fights before. It'll probably be fine by the end of this week."

"I dunno... this seemed... legit. It was like some final battle you'd see at the end of a video game. It felt so much like the conclusion to a story, it was unreal."

"I think I know what you mean."

"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. I'd ask if you wanted to hang out but with your mom and all..."

"She's practically breathing down my neck. It's gross."

I would never say that to her face, but I know Ben won't snitch on me.

"Sounds like it."

"I mean, it's for my own good though. Or, at least I'm pretty sure it is."

We're both silent for a moment, lost in thought.

"I gotta go now, Eddie. My mom needs to use the phone."

"Oh, okay. Call me later?"

"I'll try."

"Same."

"Bye."

"Bye."

And the line goes dead. I hang it up and sit down in the chair at the table, drumming my fingers against the wood. It was perfectly smooth when we bought it a few years ago, but Mommy sanded to down and did a whole bunch of other stuff to it to make sure there were no tiny pieces of wood sticking up in random places that could give me a splinter. As much I love her and appreciate what she does for me, sometimes Mommy can go a little overboard. Still, it's for my own good.

I pick up a red sharpie out of a cup sitting next to the notepad where Mommy writes down anything we might need. It's like a shopping list of sorts, I suppose. I uncap the marker and pull the yellow, lined notepad close to me. I draw a big horizontal line that goes from one side of the paper to the other, leaving a quarter of an inch of room before the line goes off the sheet. I trace over it once, then twice, and again and again and again. Right before I let the ink bleed through to the next page, I move the pen down a bit and do the same thing, tracing over my new line once, then twice, and again and again and again. I drag the pen up, making a small line in the middle of my large ones to connect them. Then I add two lines on either side to create two little perfectly symmetrical boxes. From the top left corner of my shape, I make a diagonal line. I make another line of the same length and style coming from the top right corner. That's when I cap the pen and tear the page from the notebook.

I crumble up my doodle and throw it away when I realize what I've unintentionally drawn. It's a pair of fucking glasses.

After a minute of banging my head on the table (metaphorically, of course. I'd never actually do that.), I pick up the phone once again, dialing a number I've called so many times before that the keys required to actually dial it are worn on the phone. Someone picks up rather quickly but doesn't say anything for a full five seconds. Just as I go to say something first, the person on the other end of the line speaks.

"Hello?" asks a female voice. Only one lady lives in that household.

"Mrs. Tozier?"

"This is she. Who is this?"

"It's Eddie. Is Richie home?"

"What?"

"I asked if Richie was home."

"Um... well, no, actually. He told me he was headed over to your house hours ago."

Shit. Of course, Richie would say something like that.

"Hello? Eddie?"

I panic for a second before making up a lie on the spot. "Sorry about that. We're playing, uh... truth or dare and he dared me to call the last number I called. And it was this one. Sorry again, I'll go now. Bye!" I slam the phone back on its rest place and sigh deeply.

Great, now Mrs. Tozier thinks I'm-

A loud crash from upstairs stops my train of thought.

I'm alone in the house.

I'm _supposed_ to be alone in the house.

I shoot up from my chair and run up the stairs. It isn't until I'm standing right in front of my closed door that I begin to freak out. What the hell is going on in there? Did someone break in? Are we getting robbed? Is-

The door flies open and reveals none other than Trashmouth himself. "Eds!" He beams.

"Richie, what the hell?! Did you just break into my house?"

"Um... obviously?"

"Why?"

"'Cause I missed you, cutie."

"Shut up, Trashmouth. You and I both know that's not true."

Richie shrugs and rolls his eyes, turning back around to walk into my room. "Fine. You caught me. I came here for your mom. Mrs. K. just loves when I surpri-"

"Beep beep, Richie." I cross my arms and follow him inside, not noticing the door slowly shut behind me. "Now what do you want?" But Richie is still talking.

"I seriously have a thing for this family. Really, I do. A threesome with me, you and your mom would be right up my alley and I'd-"

"Shut the fuck up, you asshole," I spit, but there's no real venom behind my words. Only slight annoyance. "Why'd you just show up at my house unannounced when you know damn well that my mom spends 90% her Sunday shopping?"

I really don't need a mental image of Mommy naked. Once while I was trying to go to the bathroom, I hadn't noticed that the lights were already on; I was too lost in thought that day. By the time I opened the door, I had already seen too much. Mommy was just about to get in the shower and I saw her completely naked. I couldn't look her in the eye for a week.

"Ever think that maybe I just wanna see my best friend?"

For a split second, I'm touched that Richie called me his best friend, but then I remember that this is _Richie_ we're talking about. "No, actually. I wouldn't ever think that."

"Oh."

I glance over from staring at nothing to find Richie sitting on my bed, bouncing his knee up and down (a nervous habit he's had since before I can remember). Damn, I didn't think he'd get so upset over such a tiny comment. We've said way meaner things to each other in the past where no one got hurt. Why is now any different? I move to sit next to him, and he doesn't object.

"Did something happen, Richie?"

I get no response.

"Are you okay?"

I get no response.

"You still in there?"

I get no response.

"Richie?"

He immediately takes in a shaky breath, his shoulders moving with his lungs' inhalation. He looks up at me and shows me something I have only seen once when we were nine and got lost in the woods on our bikes. Richie had been fully convinced that we'd never see another human being again.

_"Eddie!" Richie looked around, panicked, for the seemingly billionth time in ten minutes. "We're gonna be lost forever! No one is ever gonna find us a-and we're gonna grow up to be lame versions of Tarzan! There are no gorillas in Derry! How are we gonna survive?!"_

_He and I had gone out biking, despite my mother's complaints for us not to. Richie had come to my house to sneak me out later that night. Now we each had one foot in the grave, and couldn't see more than ten feet in front of us without everything getting overly dark._

_"Richie! Calm down. It's gonna be fine. Our parents will see that we aren't there in the morn-"_

_"No Eddie! You mean your mom is gonna see that you aren't there! You really think my parents give enough shits about me to notice that I'm gone?! How do you think I got out of my own house?!"_

_Even though I was taken aback by his use of foul language (because nine-year-olds don't swear), it couldn't distract me from seeing his eyes watering up. I had never seen Richie cry before, not even when he fell off the top of the highest slide on the playground and sprained his ankle. My first instinct was to hug him and hold him close because that's what my mommy did when I was crying, even though I had only cried a few times in front of her. Most of the time I waited until I was alone in my room to let the tears fall. The only reason I did that was because when she hugged me while I was crying and shaking, it felt like I was suffocating._

_I decided not to hug Richie._

_He plopped himself down on a fallen down log that was almost half his size and I ignored every part of me screaming not to do that because there are so many diseases waiting on old, dead trees for little boys like me. I sat down next to him and he leaned on my shoulder since I was taller at the time. I put my arm around his shoulder and let him cry, trying to be the strong one for once._

_My mommy showed up with the police two hours later._

He looks up at me and shows me that he's crying. It's not a quiet, dainty cry either. No, it's hard and heavy with red eyes and flushed cheeks and a trembling lip. My eyes widen and I panic for a second. What do I do? I've said worse things before. Hell, we've rambled on about how much we hate each other before!

"Richie..." I cautiously put a hand on his shoulder. Despite him being pink in the face, his skin is ice to the touch.

"I... I'm sorry, Eddie."

He's what now?

My jaw drops a little in shock. I don't think I've ever heard Richie apologize unless it was sarcastic or a grown-up forced him to, and even then it's totally fake.

"What for?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"For... for everything. I'm a shitty excuse for a friend. All I do is take, take, take, but I never give you anything in return."

"Richie, that's not true. You're a good per-"

"Oh, bullshit. I'm an absolute ass and we both know it. Hell, everyone in this shithole of a town knows it too!" He's on his feet now, ranting. "Richie Tozier, Derry's biggest fuckup!" His normally pale skin is red with rage, and as his hands move animatedly, I can see them shaking in anger and frustration. "The freak of the town! God, what a _fucking mess_!" His last words are spat out into the world like they were worse than acid. Richie turns to face me and it dawns on him how riled up he is. His expression calms down and the tension in his shoulders melt away.

"I'm sorry. I just-..." I can almost see the words on the tip of his tongue, but he shakes his head and decides not to say them.

"You just what?"

"I just want to do something nice for you for once, that's all." He sits down next to me so that our thighs are touching.

"Well, you came all this way over here. You've got to have something in mind."

"Actually," he snakes his arm around my waist, pulling us even closer together. "I did have something in mind." I shoot Richie a weird look and lean away, but he leans right on with me, keeping our shoulders attached together. Uncomfortable, I stand up and ask, "What do you think you're doing?"

Instead of answering, Richie stands up as well, slowly walking toward me. "I'm giving you something I know you want, pretty boy."

The new nickname sends all the wrong kinds of chills up my spine. "I don't know what you're doing, asshole, but stop it. It's weird."

"I don't think I will," Richie says as he pushes me up against a wall. Our bodies are pressed up against each other in every way, and I'm certain that he can feel my pounding heart that's about to beat right out of my chest. We're so close that whenever I breathe out, I can see his glasses fogging up, but it doesn't seem to faze him. He looks down so that his mouth is right next to my ear and whispers, "I know you want this."

Before I can ask what, he presses his lips to mine. Immediately, I shove him away with such a force that he lands on the ground, but I can't find it in myself to care.

"What the fuck was that?!"

"What was what?" He asks innocently, tilting his head to the side like he doesn't know what he just did.

"You know damn well what that was. You just-... You just kissed me! What the hell, Tozier?!"

"Oh, Eddie," he says, getting up to his feet. "I know about your huge crush on me. I know you're gay. You don't have to pretend anymore." His words are too smooth; they sound scripted.

"I'm not pretending. I'm not gay. I don't like boys, especially not you."

"Relax."

Richie wraps his arms around my waist.

"Drop your guard."

I try to push him away, but he doesn't flinch.

"Let loose."

He slides his cold hands up my shirt and touches my back all over.

"Let me do something nice for you."

He kisses me again, but this time he shoves his tongue in my mouth. It's the weirdest feeling ever, and I hate it. I try to pull back, but he keeps pushing forward.

"Let me do something nice to you."

Despite my struggling, he picks me up and puts me on my bed.

"Let me do something pleasurable to you."

_"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"_

My breathing is uneven and ragged. Richie is dragging the back of his hand all along my jawline and neck. I know he has a nasty habit of never trimming his nails, but against my skin, his nails feel like claws slicing open my flesh. There are so many thoughts running through my head at once that I don't notice the thin lines of blood he's drawing. I don't notice my shirt slowly being stained red.

I stop aimlessly fighting against him before concentrating on one thing. He's stronger than I am, so I have to play it smart. In one swift motion, I kick Richie in the groin, desperate to get him off of me.

He isn't deterred in the slightest.

"It's gonna take a lot more than that to get me off of you," he whispers against my skin.

"Get off of me!" I scream, terrified of what he's going to do next. In reply, all he does is shush me, and kiss me once again.

That's when I hear the front door swing open.

"Eddie-bear, I'm home!"

Mommy's home.

Richie turns his attention to the door, and I take his distraction as an opportunity to knee him in the stomach and kick him away so harshly that he hits the wall he had me pinned against not but minutes ago.

"Eddie? Is everything alright up there?" I can hear her footsteps coming up the stairs.

I sit up and run to the door, only to find it locked.

My door doesn't have a lock on it.

"Mom!" I bang on the door as hard as I can. "Mommy!"

My next words are cut off when dead hands grab my collar and throw me back so I hit the foot of my bed. Richie kneels down not but an inch from my face, his expression laced with hatred.

"You're such a bad boy. A bad, sick little boy."

He flashes me a smile that is anything but happy, and my heart stops beating. I can almost see a yellow, sinister glint in his eye. His jaw falls down and his exhalations that go right into my face reek of metal, contrary to the typical Double Bubble smell I'm so used to. He lurches forward and I shut my eyes, bracing myself for whatever is sure to come.

"Eddie-bear? Why're you on the floor? What's wrong?"

I look up and see Mommy, but no one else. I glance around the room, wide-eyed. It really is just the two of us. It's just my mommy, who could not have come at a better time, and me, a complete mess.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"I'm..." I don't know what to say. I bring my shaky hands up to my neck where Richie touched me. "Cut..." I mumble out.

Mommy gasps and pushes the collar of my shirt aside and scans me up and down. Confused, she asks, "where? I don't see anything."

I don't say anything. I can't say anything. I just keep rubbing the spot where he touched me, ignoring the blood now covering my fingers.

"I think you just need to lay down Eddie-bear. I'll take you to the doctor as soon as you wake up, just to be sure you're not hurt."

"Okay."

Mommy helps me into my pajamas, and I don't say much. Soon enough, she's tucking me into bed and kissing me goodnight, even though it's not even seven. As soon as she shuts the door to go back downstairs, I rub the spot where he touched me once more.

Richie Tozier, my best friend, touched me.

Just thinking about it makes me want to cry.

I'm alone.

There's no one to impress or try and stay strong for when you're alone.

When you're alone is the best time to cry.

All at once, everything falls on me and shatters like glass on impact with my soul.

I try to gasp for a breath, but my chest curls in on itself and won't let me take in air. My mouth hangs open and my rips are slowly crushing me from the inside out. I huff out air, but still can't manage to take any in. My shoulders press together and my back feels like its being shredded into pieces. My throat closes and my mouth gets dry. My eyes feel like they're burning and bleeding. Tears form up at the corners of my eyes, spilling over quickly after. My temperature rises steadily, but I don't kick off my bed sheets. I stay perfectly still, save for my body twitching. My fingers are stiff, and I can't even wiggle them. My inhaler sits on my desk on the opposite side of the room as me, taunting me, but I can't get up to go get it. My skin is red, I just know it. Snot drips out of my nose and drool does the same with my mouth, despite it being drier than the desert. My lower lip trembles like mad. Steady streams of water pour out of my eyes, flowing into my mouth and off my chin, wetting the collar of my shirt so it's cold against my body.

I don't thrash.

I don't move.

I don't make a sound.

I'm silent and still as I cry myself to sleep.

~

I don't remember falling asleep, but I wake up to the sound of my mother snoring in her armchair in the living room. The sun shines through my window where the blinds are up, and I wince at the sudden change in lighting. Through squinted eyes, I try and look at my watch sitting on my bedside table.

It's just before six; I slept close to eleven hours.

I sit up and am immediately hit with a feeling of nauseousness. I see black clouds in the corners of my line of sight but blink them away. I let my head fall into my hands and sigh heavily. Mommy won't be up until at least ten, and she sleeps like the dead, so I've practically got the house to myself until then. But it's not like that matters; there's nothing to do around here anyway.

I swing my feet over the side of the bed, standing up. It takes me a moment to find my center of gravity, but as soon as I do I go to the bathroom. My line of vision quickly drifts over to the mirror, where I gasp at what I see.

So it wasn't all a dream.

Paper-thin cuts that run deep cover my neck and collarbone. They all go straight down from my jawline to underneath my shirt. I push the cloth aside and find that they don't end until they're just past my armpit. Dried blood covers my skin, and I gag at the sight. It isn't until I lean in closer to the mirror to see that there's more. Barely visible slashes decorate my thin lips. A few of them are too long and go onto my pale skin. I hadn't noticed it before, but now that I'm looking for it, I can find a faint taste of blood in my saliva. I bring my trembling hand up to touch them, but as soon as my fingers come into contact with my lips, I snatch them away. The contact burns. This time more carefully, I gently poke at my face, pushing my skin around.

I must not have processed it when it was happening, but now I can recall that Richie's teeth looked rather sharp. While his teeth were nowhere near being in a straight line and were always kind of jagged, this time around it seemed a little too unnatural. A little too inhuman. But I know that's just my mind playing tricks on me. That's what happens when something horrible goes down; your mind tries to trick you into thinking something happened when it was really another thing entirely. I know it was just his braces.

Richie has braces, right?

As I wrack my brain for an image that will tell me if he has braces, the memory of his metallic breath comes back to me. Obviously, that was the braces.

Now that I've put a reason behind why the bottom half of my face is cut up, I feel a little calmer. But it still doesn't change the fact that Richie touched me. He put his lips to mine and pressed me to the wall. His hands danced around my body in ways that they never should.

I have to wash his touch off of my skin.

I peel my clothes off my body like they're a layer of second skin. In my underwear only, I dig around in the cabinet under the sink for my cast cover. God knows what I'd do if I got my cast wet. I find the cover in the back of the cabinet, which is odd since he used it just the other day. As I go to stand back up, something on my back catches my eye.

My heart jumps up to my throat and I turn around so my back faces the mirror. I twist my body and turn my head to see my spine littered with marks that match the ones on my lips and neck. The white stripes run long and thin in every direction. My throat closes up and I can barely choke out breaths. His nails were long, but to make these marks, they must have been close to being claw-like. Blood residue lingers on my skin, and at a glance down, I see it does the same on my shirt. How I managed to not notice the little spots of red on my clothes until now is beyond me.

I turn solely the hot water knob in the shower. Hot water gets rid of germs much better than cold water, so the hotter the better. I don't think I've ever felt this unclean in my life.

The water splashing on the floor of the tub creates enough sound to drown out my own thoughts. After a few minutes of testing the water and waiting for it to heat up, I strip myself of the rest of my clothes and step in the shower. The extreme change in temperature makes my skin tingle, but I let the water freely run down my back. It's washing off the blood, as shown in the red water pooling around my feet then feeding itself into the drain. I tilt my head and let my hair become slicked back. Water falls down my face and drips off my chin like a broken kitchen faucet. I stand in that position for maybe three minutes just letting myself think before moving to pour soap into my palm. The green liquid piles up, twisting and swirling as it hits my only good hand. Pouring soap was pretty difficult the first day I had my cast, but I think that by next week I'll be okay. I haven't dropped the bottle yet, so I think I'm getting the hang of it.

I close my eyes and begin to wash my hair so that I smell like ocean mist. Suds roll down my back, stinging cuts. I hadn't even noticed that they had reopened. I ignore the light burning sensation, just like I've been ignoring this whole situation. Can I even call it a situation? That word doesn't seem to do anything about this justice. What do you even call your supposed "best friend" leading you on? It's not really something that fits the textbook definition of any word.

It's just scary.

I run my fingers through my hair a couple times and rinse out the soap. When I finally bring my good hand back down to my side, I see that it's trembling. Everything in my body is tense, and no length of a shower can change that; I'm shaking all over.

I finish the rest of my shower, washing my face and body, dropping the soap bar not once, but twice. Each of those times I proceeded to stare at it as it swished around on the wet floor for at least a minute before picking it up. I grab my towel from its folded up position on the closed toilet seat and dry myself off, ruffling my hair with it so strands stick up every which way. I step out of the shower, almost slipping on the cold tile, but hastily make my way to my room where I clothe myself faster than I think I ever have before. I leave off my shirt, though. If I'm still bleeding, I don't want to stain it like I already did to my pajamas and bed sheets.

Back to the bathroom I go, hanging up my now damp towel on its proper hook. I give myself a once over and grimace at how disgusting I am even though I just got out of the shower. I twist my body so that I can see if I'm still bleeding, and after I find that I'm not, I throw my shirt over my head. I drag my fingers through my hair, slicking it back, and sigh heavily. My reflection and I make eye contact and only then do I see how broken I look on the inside. I stare and stare until my eyes burn and I have to blink and look away. Grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste, I brush my teeth, but the mint of the cleaner doesn't get rid of the taste of his of lips on my own. I scrub the bristles of my brush against my teeth and gum line so aggressively and for so long that I start to bleed from inside my mouth, but no amount of scrubbing can make the sin on my skin disappear. When I spit out my toothpaste, I can see streaks of red in my spit. It's enough to make me gag; I've seen enough blood today. I clean the sink out and leave the room with a flick of the light switch.

Not but a moment after I enter my room, the phone downstairs rings, which is odd, considering that it's only half-past seven in the morning; not even the pharmacy calls the house this early in the morning to tell Mommy that my next dose of one of my prescriptions is ready to be picked up. I throw my head back with a groan, turning around to go answer whoever decided to call the house before most people are awake.

I run down the stairs, something I know I shouldn't do, but the phone is really loud and though it's not likely, it could wake up Mommy. I reach the bottom of the stairs without falling and quickly grab the phone, holding it up to my ear and recite the standard greeting just in case it is the pharmacy: "This is the Kaspbrak household. Who might I be speaking to?"

"What's with the posh talk, Eds?"

My stomach hollows out. I drop the phone and it lands on the wooden floor with a crack. At first, I don't move to pick it up; I just stare straight ahead in jaw-dropped awe at the nerve he has. Only when I hear his voice through the speaker do I bend down and pick the phone back up.

"Hello? Eds? What just happened? You drop the phone 'cause my beautiful and melodic voice sent you into temporary shock?"

My blood bubbles and boils with anger underneath my skin. My hands clench tightly into fists and I feel my face heating up.

"You've got some fucking nerve calling me after the shit you pulled yesterday."

There's a beat of silence before he opens his mouth again.

"Damn Eds, calm your tits. I know you had to chat with my mom but seriously. Calm down."

"Oh, screw off. You know exactly what I'm talking about, you dick."

"Hang on, are you like... _actually_ pissed off right now?"

"No, I'm jumping off the walls that you called me the day after you broke into my house and-"

"What? Broke into your house?" I can hear him biting his nails through the phone. It's a disgusting habit he's had ever since I can remember. "Eddie, I was out smoking at the Quarry all day. That's why I wasn't home when you-"

"Bullshit, Tozier. You were at my house. I've got the marks to prove it."

"'Marks'? The hell do you mean 'marks'? We do some kinky shit I don't remember?"

"You are such an _asshole_!"

"I mean, that's true, but why are you so angry?"

"Fuck off, Trashmouth."

"Wh-"

I hang up the phone. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh that was fun.


	3. DON’T FUCKING CALL ME EDS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW- sexual advances between minors and gore/blood
> 
> Did I hear supportive Maggie and Wentworth Tozier??? bc I think I did. (They aren't the best but they're trying)
> 
> ~

 

A week passes. Seven days of quiet come and go. The only noises in the house are either my mother's snoring or her programs playing on the T.V. Other than that, it's radio silence. I get no calls, nobody knocking on my door seeing if I want to come play outside, nothing.

It's not like I expected anything different, though. Not after all the stuff that happened.

I still don't feel clean.

All the scars have faded some, namely the ones on my back and face. The ones on my neck and collarbone are still rather prominent though.

I can't stand to look at my reflection. My twin in the mirror taunts me with eyes without emotion behind them and destroyed flesh that looks like a blade was mercilessly taken to it. I haven't felt like I've been alone in a room since that day; it always feels like there's a pair of eyes watching, waiting for me to drop my guard so they can pounce, pin me up against the wall, tear my skin into thin strands, kiss me with ugly and dirty lips, touch me in places that I don't even touch myself-

The phone rings through the empty house (Mommy is out shopping again).

I stand up from my spot on the bed, ignoring the indention I've made from sitting in one spot without moving for so long. I take my time going down the stairs. Why should I rush? The chances of anyone important being on the other line are slim to none.

I stand in front of the phone, listening to the new ringing. After Ri-... he called me and I dropped our old one and while it didn't completely break, a small wire poked through the side of it. It wasn't like the part where the electricity ran through was exposed. I could brush my hand against it and be fine. But Mommy said it was "a severe safety hazard, Eddie! One wrong move and it'll shock you and kill you! You wouldn't die and leave me alone, would you Eddie-bear?", so I had said, "No, Mommy", which was the standard reply around this house. Either that or you replaced the "no" with a "yes".

The new phone we had was bright cherry red. It was the same color as Marilyn Monroe's lipstick she wore all the time. Whenever I watch her movies, I can't help but stare at those luscious and lovely lips that are so perfect and plump and wonder how much a lipstick that bold in color would cost. Probably a fortune. I asked Stan who asked his mom and she said probably five dollars or so. I can remember my mind being absolutely blown for the rest of the day. Five dollars could buy you half the drugstore!

I pick up the Marilyn Monroe phone and hold it up to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Eds."

My neutral mood slips into one worse than that. Of course, he of all people decided to call.

"Fuck off, Trashmouth."

"But I-"

"And don't call me Eds."

"Eds- I mean Eddie, please, just-... hear me out."

A beat passes.

"And why should I?"

"Because I don't know why you're so mad at me!"

"You snuck into my house and-"

"I didn't even see you that day!

I groan. He's not going to give up until I cave in. He's stupidly persistent like that.

"Fine. Two minutes, but that's it."

"Only two minutes?!"

I can almost hear his eyes widening.

"One minute and fifty-five seconds."

"Shit. I, uh-... Fuck, Eddie, I wasn't at your house last Sunday! That's all there is! I didn't see you at all, and I sure as hell didn't break in!"

I scoff at how he's bluntly defying being with me, even though I have proof that he was.

"That's complete and utter bullshit, Tozier, and we both know it. I've got the marks to prove it."

"You can't just-... Wait, what do you mean marks?" He's rather convincing sounding. Maybe he should be an actor.

"Oh, so you don't remember how you made me bleed and scream and cry on my bedroom floor? I bet you don't remember touching me either, do you?"

There's silence on the other side of the phone. Maybe now he'll finally confess and admit to what he did. If I'm lucky, maybe he'll even apologize.

"I-... I did what to you?"

"You touched me." The words are like razor blades, slicing my tongue to shreds as they come up my throat and out my mouth.

"No... no, I didn't."

He sounds so confused and horrified that I almost believe him.

Almost.

"Yes, you did."

"I didn't! I swear!"

I scoff once more. "Oh yeah? Well, then who did?"

"I dunno!"

I can't believe him. He's got some nerve to just outright defy what he did.

"Your two minutes are up."

"Eds, please. You gotta believe me," he begs.

"No, I don't," I state plainly. "And that's not my name."

"Meet me at the Quarry," he rushes out, trying to fit in his words before I hang up.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not giving you the chance to pull that shit again."

"Then we can go somewhere with people! How about the roller rink? There are always people there."

He has a point. He may be stupid, but he's not stupid enough to do something like that again when there's a whole bunch of people around. We could either stand out front by the bike racks or go inside where everyone likes to sit around and drink shitty, watered down sodas. It was dark inside, but still. I don't think that he would-

"Hello? You still there?"

"Meet me there at four."

I hang up before he can say anything back.

I have a while before I have to make the ten-minute bike ride over to the rink, but I hate this house. I hate my bedroom and those stairs and the table and the doors and the bathroom and the mirrors and the shower and my bed and the walls and the floors and the ceilings that never answer me no matter how loudly I beg and plead for them to save me. I hate the silence. I hate that I'm alone. I hate when I'm not alone. One of the Losers once told me that hate was bad for the mind and soul. It probably was. If only I hadn't scared off my being and shattered my brain.

I left the house, double and triple checking to see if the door was locked. Mommy says it's an obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I'm not so sure that's right. Ben would probably know. He reads a lot.

I get on my bike, pedaling hard down the middle of the empty road. The wind whips against my face and I struggle to keep my eyes open. Luckily I know where I'm going, so it's mostly muscle memory taking me where I need to go. I go in the opposite direction of the roller rink to the train tracks. I turn down Neibolt Street and the house at the corner doesn't faze me. I'd rather go through that hellhole a million times again then relive last Sunday just once. I drop my bike next to the front steps of the church and walk inside the huge wooden doors. They don't make a sound as I pull them open. I take a seat in a pew in the back row and close my eyes. I don't think, I just listen. Harmonizing voices fill the chapel with Latin words I don't know.

_In nómine Patris,_

_Et Filius,_

_Et Spiritus Sancti,_

_Introibo ad altare Dei._

_Amen._

The choir director nods his head. I can already feel my thoughts clearing out as he says something and they continue.

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis,_

_sanctificetur nomen tuum._

_Adveniat regnum tuum._

_Fiat voluntas tua,_

_in terris sicut est in caelis._

_Panem nostrum cotidiánum da nobis hódie;_

_et dimitte nobis debita nostra,_

_sicut et nos dimíttimus debitóribus nostris;_

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem;_

_sed libera nos a malo._

I'm leaning forward in the pew, my head in my hands. To an outsider, perhaps it seems as if though I'm praying when in reality I'm trying my best to quiet the voices in my head, even God's voice. As grateful as I am for His presence, I really just need the silence right now, and He gives that to me. I close my eyes and forget about everything outside of the church. I forget about Richie, the Neibolt house, the sewers, my mom, my bike outside, the pew where I sit, the air in my lungs, the flesh on my bones.

_Gloria in excelsis Deo,_

_et in terra pax in hominibus bonae voluntatis._

_Laudamus te, benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te,_

_Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam,_

_Domine Deus, Rex caelestis, Domine Deus, Pater omnipotens._

_Dominum Jesum Christum, Filium unigenitum,_

_Domine Deus, agnus Dei, Filius Patris,_

_qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis;_

_qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis;_

_Qui sedes ad déxteram Patris, miserére nobis._

_Quoniam tu solus sanctus,_

_tu solus Dominus,_

_tu solus Altissimus, Iesu Christe,_

_et Spiritus Sancti:_

_in gloria Dei Patris._

_Amen._

I wait patiently for them to begin again. I wait a full minute when it usually only takes them a few seconds to pick back up. I wait two minutes, then three, four, five. After six minutes of silence, I look up and see the choir members standing around in small groups, most with water in their hands. They're on break. I almost feel disappointed that they won't be going on for at least fifteen minutes. Normally, I'd sit around and wait for them to get back to their soothing hymns, but today I've got plans. I stand up and leave.

My bike and I speed down the road, not because I'm excited to go, but because it's exhilarating. I think that maybe if I go fast enough I won't have to remember what I forgot. Unfortunately, I remember the skin on my body, the oxygen in my chest, the leather seat under me, my bike flying, my mother, the tunnels underground, the leper's home, Richie.

Richie.

_Richie._

I remember Richie.

I become all too aware of my cuts and bruises that weren't there forty-eight hours ago. The wind peels back the slits on my back and neck and arms and face and all over, revealing my blood, and it digs into the purples and blacks and blues. It all burns and I want to turn back.

I want to turn back but I don't.

I don't turn back.

I don't look back.

I push forward.

I arrive faster than I wanted to and Richie's already here. It's barely half-past three. Before I can say anything, before I've even gotten off my bike, Hell, the second I come into Richie's line of sight, he jumps up from his spot leaning against the metal building, dropping the cigarette in his hand that was clearly just lit. He barely pays attention as he stamps it out. It's obvious that if it weren't a reflex to put out the cig the second it hit the ground, he probably would have left it burning. He runs up to me, getting much too close. It's too much like last week for my liking. He grabs my forearm and I yank it back almost immediately as I dismount my bike. His worried expression only deepens.

"God, Eds... what happened?"

I scoff. "Don't pretend like you don't know. And don't call me Eds. I hate it." It seemed as if though that was the first time I had said that phrase and actually meant it. I loathed that name.

"You said there were marks, not..." He looked me up and down in a haste. It's a different stare than before. It's more familiar. "Scars..." he finished.

I sneer and burn holes into his untouched skin. "You don't know the half of it."

Richie says nothing.

The wind rustles the trees and I can hear music from the 50s playing inside where people are skating, no doubt oblivious to the tense confrontation going on outside.

"You're early," I finally say, and he shrugs in reply. "I've been here since you called me."

"But that was almost an hour ago."

"One hour and four minutes, if you want to be precise."

I'm quiet. Richie's quiet. Neither of us wants to initiate the inevitable conversation we have to have for two drastically different reasons. But I came here to talk about what happened, not sit around awkwardly waiting for him to say something first. Just as I go to open my mouth, Richie beats me to the punch.

"I never saw you."

"Don't lie to me."

"You know I never would."

"You just did!" I exclaim. "Right here! Right now! You're lying to my face, saying that something never happened when it very clearly did! How else could I be all scratched up! Do you think I like being mad at you?! Do you think I enjoy being terrified of my best friend?!"

Richie looks down.

"Answer me!"

"I wouldn't ever touch you." His words sound on the verge of being real. For a second I think he means something but then looks up at me over his glasses with that stupid look on his face. "Unless you wanted me to," he says, throwing in a wink.

"Do you want me to punch you?"

"Um, no, not re-"

My wound up fist hits Richie square in the jaw. He stumbles back, holding his face. I guess he didn't think I'd actually do it. It serves him right.

"I told you no, too. But 'no' doesn't mean a whole lot to dickwads like you, now does it?" I spit.

"Eds, I-"

_"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME EDS!"_

Now it's Richie's turn to be scared of what's yet to come.

"Goddammit, Richie! I hate it when you call me that! I hate it! Just like I hate you. I _loathe_ you."

I turn around, absolutely furious, get on my bike, and pedal away. I abhor just the thought of him.

~

I wake up at three in the morning to the sound of my window sliding open and someone jumping through. Between the silhouette and what happened earlier, it's safe to say that it's probably Richie. The only thing is that he's not very safe at all. He's dangerous. He proved that much to me last week.

"Eds."

"The fuck do you want now, Tozier?"

"Listen, Eds, I'm-"

"Don't call me that."

"I'm sorry."

I scowl. "Get the hell outta my face. I don't wanna see you ever again."

"Eddie, please-"

"Out."

"But I-"

_"Now."_

Richie doesn't leave. Shocker. He seems to have a total disregard for anything that I say as of late. In fact, he has the audacity to walk further into my room and sit down on the corner of my bed.

"Eddie, please hear me out," he begs, but I don't want to. I can't take anymore of his shit. I've heard enough. It's too much for me to deal with, and I need to just be alone right now and I just need to go back to sleep. I use my foot and shove him off the bed so he hits he floor with a dull thud. I can hear him sigh and stand back up. I roll over and pull the sheets up to my chin.

"Eds."

Richie's voice comes from above me; he must have gotten up and is now looming over me.

"Fuck off."

A drop of some liquid lands on my cheek. I wipe it away. And clench my blankets and shut my eyes tightly. A second and third drop follow the first and I finally look up. I swear to God if he's crying again-

"Eds."

Blood. It's running freely from his nose and mouth. One eye is swelled shut and the other is red and heavy. He's trembling all over.

Immediately, I sit up. Worry is the only thing that runs through my veins right now. All my anger and resentment is forgotten for the moment. Richie backs up and I get out of bed, taking his hand and leading him to the bathroom where I can turn on the lights and not get caught and use one of my first-aid kits to patch him up the best I can. Mommy sleeps like a corpse, so it's unlikely she'd wake up anyway. I sit him down on the closed lid of the toilet and rummage through the cabinet under the sink to find what I need. Once I've got everything, I get an old but clean towel and dampen it. As I begin wiping away all the dried blood, I ask, "what on earth happened?"

"It was... it was Went."

My steady hand freezes for a split second before continuing, though now it was shaking like mad.

"Yuh-your dad?"

"Yeah... mom too..." he says, looking down at his hands, ashamed. I tilt his chin back up so I can both see what he's doing and tell him that it's not his fault.

"But I thought they were getting better? Going to therapy and stuff?"

"Yeah. Were. They stopped their sessions a month ago, but this is the first time either of them have lashed out like this. It's just like before... How long's it been now? What- two, three years? God..."

My heart breaks at the sight. Maggie and Wentworth had been getting so much better, I had thought. Especially this year. But now... now this...

Richie blinks a couple of times, but there are no tears. Just blood. Dark, crimson blood rolling down from his eyes. I stagger backward in shock. I didn't even know people could cry blood! That stuff only happens in horror movies!

"I've been thinking about you all day, Eds."

The air thickens.

"I still am."

Richie stands.

"I'm alone."

I step back until I hit the wall.

"I'm on my bed at home, thinking of you, asking myself what I did wrong."

Richie's face is an inch away from me, but our bodies touch everywhere. His eyes grow to be huge as he says, "the lonesome lug launches."

Time freezes.

_I never saw you._

_I wouldn't ever touch you._

_I never would._

_Eddie! He smiled. He cared._

_Eddie! He smiles. He cares._

_Eds! He loved. He loves._

_Richie would never hurt me. Why did I think he would? Why am I such an idiot for not seeing the hell in front of me? This is not Richie._

_This is not Richie._

_Not my Richie Tozier._

I never quite saw when his pained face turned into a smile, but his now comically large grin grows wider. It keeps going until the corners of his mouth are quite literally ear to ear. He grips onto my forearms so tightly, he's cutting off circulation. I try and jerk my good arm free as the severity of the situation dawns on me. This... this thing in front of me is a demon. One that could end my life. One that wants to end my life. He lets go of me with not hand, dragging his cold hand down my face. I push and shove on his chest, but it does absolutely nothing. He examines my skin and leans down like he's going to kiss it, but I know that is no where near close to what he's actually going to do. I scream out in fear and for help but Richie only laughs.

"Cry out all you want. Your screams and shouts are silenced to slugs and strangers."

He presses his fake lips to my skin and holds it there, tasting my flesh. After just a second, he bares his teeth and they sink down. I scream like someone just stabbed me because that's what it feels like, though if he wasn't lying, no one but the two of us can hear a thing so it was futile. All of it was futile. Pointless. Helpless. This is my deathbed.

I've never been so scared.

Richie waves a hand over his face and all his injuries disappear. He does it again and his iris and pupils fade away. Maggots and worms crawl beneath his skin, poking out in some places. His right cheek, his chin, under his left eye, his hairline. He unhinges his jaw and black tar drips down and insects fall into my lap. Anytime the goop or the bugs touch my skin, it burns like acid. I scream again.

"What's a matter, Eds?" His voice is lined with hysterical laughter. "Don't ya' wanna kiss me anymore?" He laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs. His pupils swirl back to life, only this time they're a sickening yellow. "Wheezy Gets Off a Good One!" He's cackling like a maniac. Suddenly it stops and he grabs me by the throat, shoving me against the wall and dragging upward. I gasp for air as my feet dangle a foot above the ground. He grins with insanity. "There's no one to save you now, Girly Boy."

It's the house on Neibolt Street all over again. His face opens up and countless rows of fatal teeth spin around like tires, waiting to run me over. I close my eyes but they're forced open.

 _He still insists he sees the ghosts,_ he says. His voice is everywhere. _He thrusts his fists against the post and still insists he sees the ghosts. He thrusts his fists against the post and still insists he sees the ghosts. He thrusts his fists against the post and still insists he sees the ghosts. He thrusts his fists against-_

I will not die like this. If no one is here to save me, then I'll save myself.

I reach for the towel rod and lean on it, snapping it off the wall.

_He thrusts his fists-_

Orange lights, deadly lights, flicker in Richie's- no. In Its throat. I'm enamored with them. I can't look away. They're so unique and beautiful. I feel quite light now. It's peaceful. Serene. Unlike the cold metal in my hand.

Cold metal?

I wake up from the hypnotic trance just enough to remember what I need to do and actually follow through with it. I raise the rod up and jab it down into Its mouth. The orange lights die. I shove the pole down further and It gapes helplessly. I go for the door but it's locked. Not thinking twice about what I'm doing, I back up and ran my shoulder into the wood, breaking it down. Never have I been more glad for our house being older than my grandparents. I scramble to my feet, running out the front door. It follows, snapping the rod in half so now It brandishes a weapon. I open the front door and look back for just a split second. It hurts the broken rod at me, aiming for my head. I move in just the nick of time, but it scrapes past my cheek, leaving a nasty cut that burns like hellfire.

I run.

I run and I run and I run, letting my feet take me wherever they feel. I pretend that I don't know where I'm going, that it's all just in an effort to get away from the thing that may or may not be chasing me (I'm not risking looking back again), but I know deep down it's a lie. I'm going to my second home where I feel most safe.

Ten agonizingly long minutes later, I'm standing in front of the Tozier residence. Richie's light is still on, which is rather odd. It's got to be close to four a.m.

I hop the fence that goes to the back yard and climb up the ash tree that has branches that almost go into Richie's room. Only a small window prevents them from growing into the house. Through it, I can see Richie's back from where he's sitting on his bed. When I used to sneak off to Richie's place regularly, on the nights he expected me (almost every night, save for the ones where he came and saw me), he'd crack the window just an inch or two so I could slide it open. I didn't think it'd be open tonight. I wouldn't have been suprised if it was locked shut, but no. It's open. The window is cracked open just enough so I can slip my fingers underneath the pane and get inside. Just as I go to touch the glass, Maggie Tozier steps into her son's bedroom. I pull my hand back and wait for her to go away, but she doesn't. She sits down on the bed and puts an arm around Richie. He immediately leans into the touch. No words are exchanged. I can hear Richie's heavy breathing and I hold my own breath, staying as still as possible to avoid being seen. After a few minutes of nothing but hearing uneven, ragged inhalations from Richie, his mom asks, "what's wrong, Rich?"

He seems to get even smaller at the question. Maggie frowns at this and opens her mouth again. "You know you can tell me anything, sweetie."

Nothing, still. After a few moments of silence from her son, he finally looks up and says, "you wouldn't get it." Maggie almost laughs at this. "Oh, Richie, I was young like you, too. I've been through all the same things you-"

"No!" Richie says, breaking out of her kind embrace and standing up. "You wouldn't get it! This isn't something I can talk about with you!"

I bite my inner lip and look away, not wanting to see Richie get yelled at or worse, hit. I've always told him that he can't just yell and talk back at people when he's upset, especially adults. I tell him every time he gets in trouble at school and is sent to the principal's office. I tell him every time-

"Richie," Maggie says with a kind and worried expression clear on her face. "Is it boy troubles?"

Richie looks a bit taken aback by her response, but nods slowly. "I mean... I guess so, sorta, but not-"

"I'll go get Went," she decides, leaving Richie not for half a minute before coming back with her husband in tow.

"What's up, kiddo? Your mom says somethin' 'bout guy troubles?"

Richie looks like he's on the verge of both breaking down and punching a hole in the wall at the same time. "No, Dad, that's not what I mean. Not like what you're thinking."

Maggie goes to add something in again, but Wentworth gives her a look that says, "no" loud and clear. "Tell us what you mean, son."

For the next few seconds Richie starts sentences and stops them only two or three words in, like he can't form a complete thought or find the right words. Slowly but surely, he gets more and more upset about what's bothering him. At this point I'm fairly sure I know what it is. For the second time in less than a month, I see Richie Tozier cry. Only this time it's different; this time it's real.

The best way I can think to describe it would be to compare it to a broken record. It plays the same scratchy three notes over and over, trying to go on, stumbling over his words, unable to continue. His shoulders heave and the music sounds horrible. "I miss him." I want to fix it. I'm actually quite good when it comes to fixing things. But I've forgotten all my tricks. I've forgotten how to move. "I've ruined it all!" It's hard to fix something when it's smashed to smithereens. It's even harder when you're the one who broke him. His parents keep trying to play his old record on him, but it doesn't work. Nothing they try is working. "He looked so scared, Poppa." They only have old records. The new ones only I have stored away deep within me, but I'm too embarrassed to show them and their song. I'm too scared that if I put my new record on this broken machine that it won't play the beautiful music it once did before. I'm scared of disappointment. I'm scared of disappointing myself and the record player. And Richie. "Scared of me!"

Tears stream down his red and puffy cheeks now, the notes shattering every time they try to play. "He doesn't want me anymore, Mommy." It's getting weaker and weaker. I keep thinking that each new sound I hear will be the last, but there's always another one coming after the last. I'm terrified of what will happen once the song is over. By then it will have been too late for me to even attempt to play the new records. I have to try now, while he's still got the will to push on. "I wanna give up."

But I can't. His parents are in there, poking and prodding at the destroyed buttons. They don't work. They won't work. They aren't using the right tools. They don't have the right tools. They don't even know what the right tools are. "It's Eddie, Dad! He hates me! He said so! He said he loathes me! What am I supposed to do about that?! I just-... I dunno. I don't wanna lose him. I care too much. Wouldn't it be better for the both of us if I just left him alone?

"I mean, he said it. He told me. He doesn't wanna be there anymore. He wants me to just... go on and fuck off! Get out of his life! Never show my face to him ever again! He-... he told me all these things... Things he said I did, even though I didn't... But now that I think about it... He was right. I was the problem. I am the problem. I was hurting him and I still am. Maybe... maybes its best if I leave him alone. It'd be better, right? For the both of us... We'd get over it eventually... Or rather, he would. I wouldn't. You don't go and forget a guy like Eddie, now do ya'?" Richie laughs like someone cracked a sickening joke with barely any humor to it. He sounds almost disgusted with himself.

Both of his parents are in shock. They expected it to maybe be some girl he had met earlier who broke his heart a little bit. They thought maybe their son was tired or sick. Never once did they think that little ol' Eddie Kaspbrak would have been the one to break the record player. Never did they think that I would be the one to do this. It honestly took them both by immense surprise. Sure, we've gotten into petty arguments and fights here and there over the years but never has anything so drastic happened that brave Richie Tozier has been reduced to a sniffling heap of a crying smashed record player. Neither of them knows what to say; they've never been in the position to where they need to comfort their son on this level. Maggie looks like she wants to hug him or something, but isn't sure if that would be the right move. I'd imagine it wouldn't be.

The quiet lays thickly in the room. It almost suffocating, and I'm not even in there. Richie is the first one to cut the heavy silence. "Can you guys maybe leave me alone for a bit? I, uh... I need to cool down some..."

"Yeah," his mother says, nodding solemnly. She leaves. Went follows, but just as he goes to close the door behind him, he turns back. "Don't forget that if you ever need us we're right down the hall."

"I know, Dad. Thanks."

"Anytime, kid."

The door closes and Richie collapses on his bed once more, just like earlier. His head is in his hands and the weight of the world sits in his shoulders. I reach for the window to open it and slip in, figuring it's better late than never. Before my fingers can touch the glass, Richie says something.

"Hang on, Eds. I'll get it."

He stands, sighing and wiping away stray tears that refused to completely stop falling. He smiles when he makes out my silhouette in the tree, sliding open the window just enough to where I can get through. I hesitate before going inside, but do it, just to make him happy.

"Enjoy the show?" he asks, staring at his bare feet.

"Richie, I-"

He looks up and it seems as if though he's about to say something, but forgets how to speak when he sees me.

"What the hell happened?"

As he addresses my wounds, a new wave a pain finds its way to me. The adrenaline that was fending it off goes away and he takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom where he can use one of his first-aid kits to patch me up the best he can. He sits me down on the closed lid of the toilet and rummages through the cabinet under the sink to find what he need. Once he's got everything, he gets an old but clean towel and dampens it. As he begins wiping away all the dried blood, he asks, "what on earth happened?"

This scene is too familiar for my liking.

"I'm sorry."

Richie gives me a perplexed gaze. "Whadya mean?"

"For what I said. For what I thought. You'd never do this to me. I dunno why I thought you would."

"Eds, you're not making any sense."

"It was It."

"It?"

"It."

A moment later, my words hit him.

"Oh. It."

"Yeah..."

Richie tends to the gash on my cheek and winces as he gets a better look at it.

"God... this might need stitches..."

"Probably..."

"Eddie... what did It do to you?"

"I'd rather not relive it."

Richie bites his lip to keep himself from pushing further. I appreciate that. He gets up to wash the rag off, but I know there's still more blood dripping down my face. He must have just run out of space where the blue cloth wasn't purple.

"I feel like I can't trust you anymore," I blurt out. Richie freezes.

"Why not?" He doesn't look away from the water running over his hands.

"It looked like you. When It got to me. Both times, It pretended to be you."

Richie pales. "Your biggest fear... your greatest fear... is me?" He turns to me, more broken than before.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "The opposite. It's you... you turning on me. Scaring me. Hurting me. Hating me. Richie, my greatest fear is losing you."

His eyes soften.

"I would never."

"I know."

Later that night, after I'm all bandaged up and clean, if I curl up next to him in bed a bit closer than I would if it were Bill or Mike or any of the other Losers, no one has to know.

"I trust you, Richie. I really do."

"Me too, but about you."

"I... I love you."

A beat passes before he snorts and says, "that's gay."

I roll my eyes. "Shuddup."

Richie pulls me close and leans down into my chest. His arms go around my waist and for a second I swear my heart stops.

"Never."

"Fuck you, Trashmouth," I quip. Unlike last time, there's no fire behind my words, only drowsiness.

"Awwwwwwe, Eds," he coos. "You're a real charmer."

"Beep beep, Richie."

He's quiet for all of ten seconds.

"I love you too."

Sleep falls over us.


	4. I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a mix of stuff from the book and the movie in the chapter so if you haven't read the book/seen the movie you might think I'm clever and original (spoiler: I'm not)
> 
> TW- Descriptions of blood, and loose retelling of the fight in the sewer between It and the Losers

I wake in a bed that is not my own in arms that are thin and familiar.

Richie's house. Richie's bed. Richie's arms.

Richie.

The events of yesterday come flooding back to me like a bad dream. I shut my eyes again, hoping to fall back asleep, but I stay wide awake. I can't tell if it's from the horrible memories or Richie's obnoxiously loud snoring, though I have a hunch it might be a mix of the two. I slowly get out of bed, making sure not to wake him. He stirs a bit and rolls around, moving from a fetal position to starfish-ing and taking over the entire bed. If it were later in the day, I'd make a witty remark, but the sun is barely rising. I don't have to be on my A-game right now.

I sift through the junk stacked high on what I think was once a desk until a find a scrap of paper that looks like it once had algebra on it and a pencil without an eraser. I can't find an empty place to set the paper down and write on, so I move to the wall.

_Dumbass,_

_I don't really feel like getting yelled at by my mom for not being there when she wakes up. Call me when you wake up, but make sure it's after noon. You probably won't be awake until at least then, but just in case. I've got to run to the pharmacy and get my pills and won't be home until then. Please please_ please  _don't call my house just so you can talk to my mom. It's embarrassing for everyone._

_\- Eddie_

_P. S. Thanks for last night._

_P. P. S. If you tell anyone about what happened last night, you're dead to me._

I don't bother reading the note over before setting it in Richie's sock drawer where I know he'll see it as soon as he gets out of bed. (He claims to have cold feet in the morning so he puts on socks before he goes downstairs for breakfast. The only time he doesn't wear socks is when he's swimming, bathing, or in a mood. If Richie's in a mood that means something or someone seriously messed him up.)

Before I leave Richie's room, I glance back at him one last time. For such an awkward position to be sleeping in, he really does look a bit like an angel.

Only a bit.

Once I'm outside, I remember that I didn't bike here like I normally would have. Instead, I ran. No, I sprinted. It's a miracle I didn't have an asthma attack on the way here. Only now that I'm thinking about it do I realize how odd it is that during all of the insane events of yesterday, my asthma never kicked in.

Maybe it did and I just don't remember it in the heat of the moment.

I have to walk home now, and that doesn't sit right with me. Derry isn't exactly the safest place to be walking around when the sun is barely up and there's no one but the creeps and boys on their way home roaming the streets. Luckily, I make it home within half an hour and find that the door is still open from when I left it open last night. Hopefully no one unwanted snuck in and stole anything.

I go inside and find a small trail of blood dripping down the wall, staining the beige paint, and all over the hardwood floors and carpet. It ends at the door and starts in the bathroom. There's no way that I magically stopped bleeding when I went outside so I check the porch for blood and sure enough, there it is in all of its crimson glory. It goes onto the sidewalk and disappears when I ran onto the grass.

I'm fairly certain that Mommy can't see anything that It causes; she didn't see my cuts or blood the first time, so why would she see them the second time? I don't bother with cleaning up and I go upstairs to my room so I can change clothes; I feel filthy.

I open my bedroom door and look around; to my relief, it's empty. I go in and strip myself of my dirty pajamas and toss them in the hamper to wash later. I quickly dress myself, not wanting to look at my injuries longer than I have to. I don't usually get up this early, but despite not sleeping more than a few hours, I'm not tired in the slightest. I feel anxious more than anything, as if something bad is going to happen. I go back downstairs to the living room and turn on the T.V. to hopefully tune out the thoughts swirling around in my head. It doesn't work too well, but it does pass the time. Soon enough, Mommy wakes up and walks in wearing her robe.

"Eddie-bear? What are you doing up so early?"

"I went to bed real early last night. Remember?"

That was a lie and I knew it. Hopefully her already foggy memory and her just waking up would force her to "remember."

"I- yes. Yes, I do. Could you put a pot on for me? I didn't sleep well last night. I could have sworn I could have heard ruckus last night, but nothing's out of place."

I was right. She was blind to my blood covering the walls. I'd hate to imagine what her reaction would be if she  _could_  see it.

"I didn't hear anything, Mommy."

"Must've been a nasty dream then."

"Must've," I say, nodding in agreement.

We sit in silence for maybe an hour. It's almost ten o'clock when I stand up and announce that I should be heading off to the pharmacy to pick up my pills.

"Oh, Eddie-bear, do you have to leave so soon? Stay for another show. I know you love my soap operas just as much as I do!"

"I wish I could, but I wanna be back before lunch."

"We could have a late lunch!"

"It's fine, Mommy. I'll be fine."

Mommy grumbles and after a bit more bickering, she sends me off after making me promise that I'll be back within an hour.

I grab my bike from its place propped up against the side of my house and take off. The pharmacy is closer then the Quarry but further than the roller rink. I take my time biking, seeing as I'm not really in a rush. I use up just over half of my hour to get to the pharmacy. I'll have to book it back home, but that's alright with me.

I open the pharmacy door and Greta Bowie is sitting at the counter. Judging by the name tag that says, "Hello! My Name is GRETA," she probably works for Mr. Keene, the pharmacist. Greta is probably one of the meanest, richest, prettiest people in Derry. She's constantly cruel to Bev (Richie guessed that it was because Bev is prettier), her clothes are always top of the line and never dirty, and she has long blonde hair that is permed at least once a month and never looks anything but flawless. She stares me down as a walk down the isle to get my pills. She blows a bright pink bubble with her gum that probably costs more than my medicine and it explodes just as I reach the counter. Before I can say anything, Greta opens her mouth.

"No one's signed your cast."

I look down at the blank cast.

"I... I don't want to get it dirty."

"I'll sign it," she says, grabbing a black pen off the top of the counter. She motions for me to bring my cast up to her and I comply. I watch as she prints the largest letters possible. I can't make out what she's writing from this angle but as soon as she's done my throat closes up.

LOSER.

"Now what'd'ya want?"

"I-I've got a puh-puh-pick up for Kuh-Kuh-Kuhaspbrak," I wheeze out, feeling the need to grab my inhaler, but I don't in fear of looking weak.

Greta smiles slightly and goes into the back to hopefully grab what I need so I can leave. I stand there for all of ten seconds before Mr. Keene himself appears as I'm digging through my fanny pack to find my inhaler.

"Looking for your inhaler, Eddie?"

My breathing gets more and more strained as I nod yes. Mr. Keene grabs my face and forces me to look up. My eyes widen with fear and I feel as if though my lungs have stopped all together.

"You don't need it."

"Wuhat?" I croak out.

"You. Don't. Need. It."

I pry Mr. Keene's hands off me and almost stumble backwards.

"You don't have asthma, Eddie. You're not sick either."

I can barely hear him. I'm concentrating everything I have on fixing my breathing and not passing out.

"For Christ's sake, Eddie," Mr. Keene says and tosses me what I can only assume is a spare inhaler from behind his desk. I don't have time to worry about how disgusting it is. I shove it in my mouth and trigger it and a mist of medicine shoots down my throat and coats my lungs. It  _burns_.

"What the hell was that?" I ask after my breathing was back in order. My voice is raspy though.

"A  _real_ inhaler."

"What do you mean  _real?"_

"Yours is fake. Along with your pills."

"What? No, they're not. Did you not see what just happened? I just had an asthma attack on your floor!"

"No, you didn't."

"Then what was that?!"

"A panic attack."

I knew that word. I had only seen one once in my life and it was over a year ago. Stan, Richie and I were all at Bill's house when he couldn't stop stuttering and was convinced that he'd never get over it. Things just got out of hand from there until Richie, of all people, managed to calm him down.

"What you just took a mist of was a real inhaler. With medicine in it. Yours is just flavored water."

"And... and the pills?"

"Placebos. Just bad candy."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You would have figured it out at some point. It's all fake. Greta said I should tell you, so I am."

"You're lying. This isn't funny."

"It's not a joke, Eddie."

"I'm not laughing!"

"Eddie, listen to me. I know this is a lot-"

"Give me my stuff."

"Excuse me?"

"I said gimme my stuff. Charge it on the account and let me go."

"Eddie, this is important. You need-"

"I don't  _need_ anything! What I  _need_  is for you to do your damn job and give me my shit!"

Mr. Keene blinked.

"Of course, Mr. Kaspbrak."

I'm out the door in exactly two minutes.

~

The second I'm back home and have the front door shut behind me, the phone rings. I glance at my watch. 12:03 p.m.

"I'll get it!"

I set down my bag from the pharmacy on the table and pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Eddie Spaghetti!"

"Hey, Bill."

"What? No, this is Richie. Can you not tell from the devilishly handsome voice?"

"I can tell, Bill. You need something?"

"Ohhhhh, I see what's going on here. Mrs. K must be in the room and you don't want her to get jealous that you get to talk to me. I get it."

"Good. Now did you need something?"

"Yeah! I was gonna see if you wanted to maybe-  _shit_ , there's another call coming in. I call you back in two seconds."

"Alright."

The line goes dead. I sit down and take out my inhaler refill. I read the ingredients. In short, it's water and some harmless drug that I can only assume gives the water the medicinal taste I'm so used to. I read the ingredients to the pills and find it's essentially just sugar and that same flavoring. No wonder Mommy always said I should keep my pills in baggies. She didn't want me reading the labels.

I grit my teeth and my blood boils. Just as I get up to give my mother a piece of my mind, the phone rings again.

"Eddie! Holy shit, Eds!"

"Ri- Bill! Calm down. What's going on?"

All I can hear through the phone is Richie's ragged breathing.

"Eds, we gotta go. It's It!"

_"What?"_

"Stan was going over to Mike's place 'cause they were gonna go bird watching or something stupid like that but when he got there Mike was  _gone_ and there was blood on the walls and stuff was on fire and there were balloons all different colors like a gory rainbow or something but he's gone Eds! Mike's gone and It has him!"

My throat dries up. It got Mike?

"We have to go get him, Eds! We're all going to the house on Neibolt Street 'cause that's where it lives and you gotta come too or else it won't work 'cause we all gotta be there!"

"I... I'll be there."

"Thank  _God,_ Eds! I'm gonna go but I'll see you there!"

The line goes dead once again. I set the phone down hastily and head for the door. Just as I go to open it, my mommy stands in my way.

"And  _where_ do you think you're going, Eddie-bear? You just got home."

"My friends need me. I gotta go."

"What friends? You mean those filthy pigs? Oh, no no no no, Eddie. You can't see them again."

I glance back over at the phone and the pharmacy bag catches my eye.

"Why should I listen to you?" I ask in a tone I never thought I'd use against my mother.

"I'm your mommy, that's why! You'll do as I say and-"

"Why should I listen to someone who's been  _lying_  to me for my entire life?! My pills, my medicine, my inhaler, my  _asthma_! It's all fake! They're gazebos! They're bullshit!"

My mother's face pales and I shove my way past her.

"My friends need me. I have to go."

I open the door and get on my bike. She's calling out at me and I make the mistake of looking back for a split second. She looks scared. Scared of the fact that her baby boy is growing up and making his own choices.

"Eddie! Eddie-bear, you come back here right this instant! Eddie! Eddie, please don't leave me!  _Eddie!"_

I don't turn back again. Instead, I focus on pedaling as hard as I can. I have to get to Neibolt. I can't waste time because there's no time to waste.

After arriving and skidding to a stop, I hop off my bike and nod my head to Richie and Stan in greeting.

"Where are the others?" I ask nervously.

"Should be getting here soon," Richie replies, looking off in the direction the others are supposed to be coming.

"They're melting down old forks and spoons to make silver bullets. Bill's got a slingshot we're gonna use to fire them," Stan adds, trying his best to keep his voice steady, though it was clear to anyone that he was both nervous and scared beyond belief.

"Why silver?"

"That's what kills monsters," Richie says matter-of-factly.

"Oh."

Ben, Beverly, and Bill all arrive a few moments later from the Denbrough household where Bill's dad undoubtedly has tons of tools that they used to melt and mold the silver bullets that Bev has tucked into her bicycle's basket. Bill is the first one off his bike, then Bev, then Ben. Beverly is the one with the weapon because she has the best aim out of all of us, hands down.

"Yuh-yuh-you guys ruh-ready?" Bill asks all of us. No one immediately replies because we don't want to outright lie. None of us are ready, nor will we ever be.

"As I'll ever be," Bev speaks for all of us when she says that. Bill offers her a weak smile that she returns before looking down at the slingshot and three bullets in her hand. They could only afford to get enough silver for three bullets because they didn't want their parents to get too nosy about what they were up to. Bill turns into the house and the door creaks open. We walk in the Neibolt house in pairs: Bill and Bev, Me and Richie, and Ben and Stan. I grip Richie's forearm rather tightly, and he's trembling all over with fear. Not that I can say much; I'm shaking too.

We slowly make our way down the stairs of the house and into the basement, where the well that leads into the sewers awaits us.

Bill manages to rig a rope up so we can lower ourselves into the darkness. He gives it a tug and looks around at the rest of us.

"Huh-huh-who's going fuh-first?"

Ben and I exchange glances. Bev and Richie do the same. Stan keeps his eyes trained on the ground.

No one wants to go first.

I peer over the side of the well. Staring back at me are two red beady and glowing eyes. A winding body stretched out like a snake lines the well walls. The entity hisses at me. I blink and It's gone.

"I guh-guh-guh-guess I'm up," Bill says mostly to himself. He grabs the rope and hoists himself over the side to where he's now dangling freely over the abyss. I almost warn him of what I saw, but we all know It's down there. I don't want to scare him any more than he already is.

All of us still standing watch anxiously as Bill lowers himself down into the hole. Once he's only a few feet in, I can barely see him anymore. He keeps going further and further down. After what seems like an eternity (but was probably only five minutes), Bill calls back up to us.

"I'm oh-ohkay! Th-th-there's a tunnel down huh-huh-here!"

Richie, Ben, Stan, Beverly and I all stay quiet. No one wants to go down second.

"I'll go," Bev says. She's always braver than the rest of us.

It takes a quarter of an hour for all of us to get down in the sewers. After Bev, Ben went. Then it was me, Richie and finally, Stan.

We all slosh around in the gunk that we're wading in up to our knees. We call out for Mike on the off chance that he can actually hear us. I think at some point I black out from the smell because one second I'm screaming for Mike because I'm scared and tired and the next I'm five feet away from It, and Bill's telling us to leave while It strokes his hair. I'm holding onto Mike's hand like I'm scared he's going to disappear again. He's covered in blood and I don't know why, but I think it's his own. Beverly has her slingshot pulled back, a bullet ready to fire at a moment's notice.

"We're not leaving you," she says, her eyes hard.

"I duh-duh-dragged you all into this. I-I... I'm  _sorry."_

My heart hurts when I hear Bill's words.

"I told you, Bill," Richie spits, stepping forward. He's going to get himself killed. "I fucking  _told_ you! I don't wanna die. It's your fault."

Bill is breaking, and Richie is tearing him apart.

"You punched me in the face," he continues, "you made me walk through shitty water, you dragged me into a fucking crackhead house! And now..." He grabs an old bat off the ground.

"I'm gonna have to kill this fucking clown."

Richie raises the bat above his head and prepares to swing.

"Welcome to the Losers' Club, asshole!"

Richie brings the bat down with a sickening crack and It drops Bill. All of the sudden, objects are flying, someone has a chain and is using it like a whip, and Beverly has used two of her bullets. It is on all fours and it turns to me, morphing Its face into something else.

"Hiya there, Girly Boy," It drools, Its face looking like Richie's but as a rotting corpse. Its skin was a sickly green and insects crawled in and out of Its nose, mouth, and ears. It opened Its mouth and spewed sewer gunk all over me, drenching me from head to toe.

"I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"

I jump to my feet and kick Its head, and it flies off Its body, landing in a brown puddle. It grew back a head, only this time It looked like Beverly's dad.

"Hey there, Bevvy... Are you still my little girl?"

In a fit of rage, Beverly launches her last bullet at It, driving it straight through Its eye. It stumbled back and began inaudibly whispering before jumping back into a hole that led straight to hell.

No one says a word until we're under the sun again. It feels like heaven.

~

We all slowly ride our bikes to the nearest house: Richie's. Both of his parents are gone to work and won't be home for hours. It gives us plenty of time to clean up before going back to our respective homes, although I'm not looking forward to seeing my mother after what I pulled before leaving. Bill is in Richie's shower and Bev is in Richie's parent's. Stan is clean and asleep in Richie's bed upstairs. Richie and Ben are patching each other up in the kitchen. Mike and I were the first to shower, and we're on the couch under a massive blanket. Mike has his face buried in my shoulder. I still don't know what happened to him and I know he's not ready to talk about it. Whatever it was traumatized him. I can feel his breathing become more and more uneven as he thinks about what went down. He begins to cry and his tears wet my shirt. After a moment he pulls back.

"I... I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me." His voice sounds like pink. It's embarrassed and raw.

"It's alright," I find myself saying. "I think I can be strong for the both of us."

Mike pulls me in for a hug. He's holding onto me like he's scared I might disappear. In that very moment, I learn something new: physical touch isn't so bad when it's not forced. It's actually pretty nice.

"Thank you, Eddie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Richie in the next chapter, don't worry. And sorry that the fight scene was totally rushed. You guys already know how it ends so I didn't want to just retell what happened in canon.   
> Also I'm gonna have a little Reddie one-shot (not related to this story) up hopefully by the end of Sunday :)


End file.
